Around the World in 80 Days by Jules Verne (best story books to read .txt) đź“•
and sat down to the Pall Mall at twenty minutes before six. Half an hour later several members of the Reform came in and drew up to the fireplace, where a coal fire was steadily burning. They were Mr. Fogg's usual partners at whist: Andrew Stuart, an engineer; John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, bankers; Thomas Flanagan, a brewer; and Gauthier Ralph, one of the Directors of the Bank of England-- all rich and highly respectable personages, even in a club which comprises the princes of English trade and finance.
"Well, Ralph," said Thomas Flanagan, "what about that robbery?"
"Oh," replied Stuart, "the Bank will lose the money."
"On the contrary," broke in Ralph, "I hope we may put our hands on the robber. Skilful detectives have been sent to all the principal ports of America and the Continent, and he'll be a clever fellow if he slips through their fingers."
"But have you got the robber's description?" asked Stuart.
"In the first place, he is no robber at all," returned Ralph
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Mr. Fogg? If the latter had been warned, he would no doubt have given
Fix proof of his innocence, and satisfied him of his mistake; at least,
Fix would not have continued his journey at the expense and on the heels
of his master, only to arrest him the moment he set foot on English soil.
Passepartout wept till he was blind, and felt like blowing his brains out.
Aouda and he had remained, despite the cold, under the portico
of the Custom House. Neither wished to leave the place;
both were anxious to see Mr. Fogg again.
That gentleman was really ruined, and that at the moment
when he was about to attain his end. This arrest was fatal.
Having arrived at Liverpool at twenty minutes before
twelve on the 21st of December, he had till a quarter before nine
that evening to reach the Reform Club, that is, nine hours and a quarter;
the journey from Liverpool to London was six hours.
If anyone, at this moment, had entered the Custom House,
he would have found Mr. Fogg seated, motionless, calm, and without
apparent anger, upon a wooden bench. He was not, it is true,
resigned; but this last blow failed to force him into an outward
betrayal of any emotion. Was he being devoured by one of those
secret rages, all the more terrible because contained, and which
only burst forth, with an irresistible force, at the last moment?
No one could tell. There he sat, calmly waiting—for what?
Did he still cherish hope? Did he still believe, now that the door
of this prison was closed upon him, that he would succeed?
However that may have been, Mr. Fogg carefully put his watch
upon the table, and observed its advancing hands. Not a word
escaped his lips, but his look was singularly set and stern.
The situation, in any event, was a terrible one, and might be
thus stated: if Phileas Fogg was honest he was ruined; if he
was a knave, he was caught.
Did escape occur to him? Did he examine to see if there were
any practicable outlet from his prison? Did he think of escaping
from it? Possibly; for once he walked slowly around the room.
But the door was locked, and the window heavily barred with
iron rods. He sat down again, and drew his journal from his pocket.
On the line where these words were written, “21st December,
Saturday, Liverpool,” he added, “80th day, 11.40 a.m.,” and waited.
The Custom House clock struck one. Mr. Fogg observed that his watch
was two hours too fast.
Two hours! Admitting that he was at this moment taking an
express train, he could reach London and the Reform Club
by a quarter before nine, p.m. His forehead slightly wrinkled.
At thirty-three minutes past two he heard a singular noise outside,
then a hasty opening of doors. Passepartout’s voice was audible,
and immediately after that of Fix. Phileas Fogg’s eyes brightened
for an instant.
The door swung open, and he saw Passepartout, Aouda, and Fix,
who hurried towards him.
Fix was out of breath, and his hair was in disorder. He could not speak.
“Sir,” he stammered, “sir—forgive me—most— unfortunate resemblance—
robber arrested three days ago—you are free!”
Phileas Fogg was free! He walked to the detective, looked him steadily
in the face, and with the only rapid motion he had ever made in his life,
or which he ever would make, drew back his arms, and with the precision
of a machine knocked Fix down.
“Well hit!” cried Passepartout, “Parbleu! that’s what
you might call a good application of English fists!”
Fix, who found himself on the floor, did not utter a word.
He had only received his deserts. Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout
left the Custom House without delay, got into a cab, and in a few
moments descended at the station.
Phileas Fogg asked if there was an express train
about to leave for London. It was forty minutes past two.
The express train had left thirty-five minutes before.
Phileas Fogg then ordered a special train.
There were several rapid locomotives on hand; but the railway arrangements
did not permit the special train to leave until three o’clock.
At that hour Phileas Fogg, having stimulated the engineer by
the offer of a generous reward, at last set out towards London
with Aouda and his faithful servant.
It was necessary to make the journey in five hours and a half;
and this would have been easy on a clear road throughout.
But there were forced delays, and when Mr. Fogg stepped
from the train at the terminus, all the clocks in London
were striking ten minutes before nine.”
Having made the tour of the world, he was behind-hand
five minutes. He had lost the wager!
IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG DOES NOT HAVE TO
REPEAT HIS ORDERS TO PASSEPARTOUT TWICE
The dwellers in Saville Row would have been surprised the next day,
if they had been told that Phileas Fogg had returned home.
His doors and windows were still closed, no appearance of change was visible.
After leaving the station, Mr. Fogg gave Passepartout instructions
to purchase some provisions, and quietly went to his domicile.
He bore his misfortune with his habitual tranquillity.
Ruined! And by the blundering of the detective! After having
steadily traversed that long journey, overcome a hundred obstacles,
braved many dangers, and still found time to do some good on his way,
to fail near the goal by a sudden event which he could not have foreseen,
and against which he was unarmed; it was terrible! But a few pounds were
left of the large sum he had carried with him. There only remained
of his fortune the twenty thousand pounds deposited at Barings,
and this amount he owed to his friends of the Reform Club.
So great had been the expense of his tour that, even had he won,
it would not have enriched him; and it is probable that he had not sought
to enrich himself, being a man who rather laid wagers for honour’s sake
than for the stake proposed. But this wager totally ruined him.
Mr. Fogg’s course, however, was fully decided upon; he knew what remained
for him to do.
A room in the house in Saville Row was set apart for Aouda,
who was overwhelmed with grief at her protector’s misfortune.
From the words which Mr. Fogg dropped, she saw that he was
meditating some serious project.
Knowing that Englishmen governed by a fixed idea sometimes resort
to the desperate expedient of suicide, Passepartout kept a narrow watch
upon his master, though he carefully concealed the appearance of so doing.
First of all, the worthy fellow had gone up to his room, and had extinguished
the gas burner, which had been burning for eighty days. He had found
in the letter-box a bill from the gas company, and he thought it more
than time to put a stop to this expense, which he had been doomed to bear.
The night passed. Mr. Fogg went to bed, but did he sleep?
Aouda did not once close her eyes. Passepartout watched
all night, like a faithful dog, at his master’s door.
Mr. Fogg called him in the morning, and told him to get
Aouda’s breakfast, and a cup of tea and a chop for himself.
He desired Aouda to excuse him from breakfast and dinner,
as his time would be absorbed all day in putting his affairs to rights.
In the evening he would ask permission to have a few moment’s
conversation with the young lady.
Passepartout, having received his orders, had nothing to do but obey them.
He looked at his imperturbable master, and could scarcely bring his mind
to leave him. His heart was full, and his conscience tortured by remorse;
for he accused himself more bitterly than ever of being the cause
of the irretrievable disaster. Yes! if he had warned Mr. Fogg,
and had betrayed Fix’s projects to him, his master would certainly
not have given the detective passage to Liverpool, and then—
Passepartout could hold in no longer.
“My master! Mr. Fogg!” he cried, “why do you not curse me?
It was my fault that—”
“I blame no one,” returned Phileas Fogg, with perfect calmness. “Go!”
Passepartout left the room, and went to find Aouda,
to whom he delivered his master’s message.
“Madam,” he added, “I can do nothing myself—nothing!
I have no influence over my master; but you, perhaps—”
“What influence could I have?” replied Aouda. “Mr. Fogg
is influenced by no one. Has he ever understood that my gratitude
to him is overflowing? Has he ever read my heart? My friend,
he must not be left alone an instant! You say he is going to
speak with me this evening?”
“Yes, madam; probably to arrange for your protection and comfort in England.”
“We shall see,” replied Aouda, becoming suddenly pensive.
Throughout this day (Sunday) the house in Saville Row was as if uninhabited,
and Phileas Fogg, for the first time since he had lived in that house,
did not set out for his club when Westminster clock struck half-past eleven.
Why should he present himself at the Reform? His friends no longer expected
him there. As Phileas Fogg had not appeared in the saloon on the
evening before (Saturday, the 21st of December, at a quarter before nine),
he had lost his wager. It was not even necessary that he should go to
his bankers for the twenty thousand pounds; for his antagonists already
had his cheque in their hands, and they had only to fill it out
and send it to the Barings to have the amount transferred to their credit.
Mr. Fogg, therefore, had no reason for going out, and so
he remained at home. He shut himself up in his room,
and busied himself putting his affairs in order.
Passepartout continually ascended and descended the stairs.
The hours were long for him. He listened at his master’s door,
and looked through the keyhole, as if he had a perfect right so to do,
and as if he feared that something terrible might happen at any moment.
Sometimes he thought of Fix, but no longer in anger. Fix, like all
the world, had been mistaken in Phileas Fogg, and had only done his duty
in tracking and arresting him; while he, Passepartout… .
This thought haunted him, and he never ceased cursing his miserable folly.
Finding himself too wretched to remain alone, he knocked at Aouda’s door,
went into her room, seated himself, without speaking, in a corner,
and looked ruefully at the young woman. Aouda was still pensive.
About half-past seven in the evening Mr. Fogg sent to know
if Aouda would receive him, and in a few moments he found himself
alone with her.
Phileas Fogg took a chair, and sat down near the fireplace,
opposite Aouda. No emotion was visible on his face.
Fogg returned was exactly the Fogg who had gone away;
there was the same calm, the same impassibility.
He sat several minutes without speaking; then, bending his eyes on Aouda,
“Madam,” said he, “will you pardon me for bringing you to England?”
“I, Mr. Fogg!” replied Aouda, checking the pulsations of her heart.
“Please let me finish,” returned Mr. Fogg. “When I decided to
bring you far away from the country which was so unsafe for you,
I was rich, and counted on putting a portion of my fortune
at your disposal; then your existence would have been free and happy.
But now I am ruined.”
“I know it, Mr. Fogg,”
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